In Absentia
by Erinya
Summary: Spike arrives in Rome for the Slayer's funeral but finds that not all is what it seems. Set post-Chosen, post-NFA, incorporates elements of Season 8 and After the Fall comics. Spike/Buffy, Spike/Illyria friendship.
1. Part I

**Warning:** Character death  
**Rating:** PG  
**Disclaimer:** All my characters are belong to Joss.  
**Author's Notes:** I have a really bad record with multi-part fics so I'll say right here and now that I guarantee absolutely nothing. But I do want to know what happens next, and if I want to find out, I have to write it. My thanks to Djarum99 for the beta and encouragement.

* * *

**In Absentia**

_Is it getting harder to pretend  
that life goes on without you in the wake?  
And can you see the means without the end  
in the random frantic action that we take?_

_And is it getting easy not to care  
despite the many rings around your name?  
It isn't funny and it isn't fair;  
you've traveled all this way and it's the same._

--"Astronaut", Amanda Palmer

He wouldn't have come to Rome, except that she was dead and he had loved her in another life; and she had maybe almost half loved him, at least enough to say she did when it mattered most and not at all.

He almost didn't come at all, because she was dead, and he had his own business to look after. Los Angeles had brought its own little corner of Hell back with it. With Angel gone, it was Spike's city now, a city of demons and desperate humans, at war with itself more than ever. He hadn't signed up for this gig, but there was no one else to do what had to be done, so he helped the damn helpless. Or maybe the helpless damned. He mostly couldn't tell the difference.

He didn't do it because she might have been proud.

Not that it would have mattered anyway. She was dead, and he'd come to say goodbye, was all. He owed her that much.

There was only one problem. The girl in the coffin wasn't her.

He should know. He'd made a study of her, sidelong and straight on, from the shadows while she stood in the light unawares, in the dark as she moved above him, the rare few hours she'd slept by his side. He'd seen her lifeless body laid out like this, even, had seen every feature of her still face in dreams every night after they'd put her in the ground.

The face was almost right, but the chin was a bit too narrow, the mouth (God, her mouth) too pinched, the frame not quite petite enough. No one who knew her, really knew her, could mistake this chit for her.

And yet, there they were, heads bent, faces drawn, their grief by all appearances genuine. Giles, looking very old, shoulders sagging. Willow, her chin up but tear tracks on her cheeks, her arm around Dawn, whose face was still, eyes wide and shocky. Xander, his arms folded, stared at the ground; the patch over the boy's lost eye gave him a ridiculously rakish air, although he looked angry, lower lip thrust forward, scowling. Andrew wept messily and openly, a little apart from the others. There were a few other girls present--Slayers, probably--although Faith was conspicuously absent.

How could they not know? Had they all gone stupid--stupid_er_--in the years since he had known them?

Or had he? Could he have forgotten her face, memories he'd thought indelible mingling with the dust of Sunnydale or blurred by incorporeality, by simple time, by Hell? That last time he'd seen her, in this city, he'd only glimpsed her across a crowded dance floor. If that remembered image seemed to match this still, small corpse, it didn't mean much.

It couldn't really be her. Could it?

* * *

Funny thing, he'd always thought he would be there when it happened. Dealing the blow himself, once, or later, at her side to the last. He'd never thought it would happen like this, that he'd hear the news from a Riigi demon in a bar just this side of Hell, a day late and half a world away.

"_What_ did you say, mate?"

The demon, too dense or too drunk to heed the dangerous note in the question or the speed with which the vampire's head had whipped around at his announcement, repeated himself. "Haven't you heard the news? Some lucky spawn finally took out the Slayer."

"Lot of those in the world lately," Spike said, but had the room just tilted under him? Or maybe it was the city, shifting uneasily on its tectonic plates as it was prone to do since its return to this dimension, as if California was trying to slough it off like a scab. "Dime a dozen, Slayers. Not like the old days."

"Not _a_ Slayer," said the Riigi. "_The_ Slayer. The original article. You know what I mean." He sniggered, baring huge, razor-sharp teeth in a horrible yellow grin. "'Bout time, if you ask me. That bitch was long past her expiration date."

Spike's bottle shattered in his hand. Convenient, that, because it meant he had something to put through the Riigi's eye.

He'd come in here to start a fight anyway, hadn't he? Show them who was Lord of Los Angeles now. Teach them to stay away from his people.

By the time the last of the patrons slumped to the ground, he didn't feel any better.

He was angry. He wasn't sure at what, or whom. Her. Himself. Destiny or chance. The shortness of human lives. A futile exercise, trying to protect them, trying to save them.

_Every night, I saved you..._

Hell. Bloody, rotten, sodding hell. Wasn't once enough, to endure this? All the witch's fault. For that matter, he could've stayed dead, too. He'd been _done_, just like her. Happy to rest in peace. But the meddlers had meddled, as they tended to, and here they were.

Only she wasn't. Not anymore.

He lifted two mostly-full bottles from the bar and kicked the door off its hinges on his way out into the night.

* * *

"You are intoxicated," Illyria observed.

"Very astute of you, Blue. Care to join me?"

She tilted her head, looking him over while plucking the bottle he tossed to her out of the air. "You have been fighting," she said, slightly accusatory. "You should have invited me to join you in that, rather than in the consumption of your recreational poisons."

"Sorry, love." He dropped his demon-slimed duster in a heap on the floor and slung himself onto a posh leather couch. They had taken over this place in the Hollywood Hills after defeating the previous Lord during their months of Hell; it looked like a Gothic castle on the outside and a thoroughly modern bordello on the inside. Illyria liked the grandeur and Spike liked the comfort. And the state-of-the-art security system. So far, no one had objected. The rich folks fortunate enough not to have been in Los Angeles when it all went to Hell were happy to stay away, and most of those who had been...well, they were in no state to complain. "Heat of the moment sort of thing. Didn't have time to call."

She seemed to accept this for the time being, examining the bottle of Skyy vodka in her hand. "This is your poison?"

"A lovely but murderous substance. See, it matches your...everything."

"I do not know how this shell will react to such a toxin," she mused. And then a shiver passed over her and the azure tint vanished from her skin and hair, the clipped, even tones of the Old One broadening into a ghost's sweet drawl. "Spike, you know I can't keep up with you! Not even close. Don't you remember what a lightweight I am?"

Spike stiffened, leaping to his feet; but the color had already flowed back into her, and it was Illyria's familiar, unearthly gaze that met his, distantly curious.

"Don't _do_ that to me," he snarled. "I'm not in the mood for your games tonight."

The scalpel-cool gaze sliced deep. "Your voice and face display pain, and yet your body is not damaged. Does the spark cause you so much harm?"

He turned away, pacing the length of the room to the blacked-out windows. "It's not that," he said. "Just reminds me..." Of Fred, yes, and that was a dull sort of hurt. But also of the year when he existed in fragments that way, caught between human and demon.

The "spark" that was Winifred Burkle didn't seem to burn Illyria the way his own soul did at first; the former god-king treated Fred's presence like everything else in this world she chose not to destroy, an object of dispassionate inquiry, a curio. He envied her detachment. He'd always been too human, felt too much even before he saddled himself with a soul. Before Buffy...

He cursed, wheeled, let his empty whiskey bottle fly out of his hand to explode into shrapnel against the brick fireplace. "You'd think this would get _easier_. After two hundred bloody years."

"I do not understand," said the god-king.

Of course she didn't, probably couldn't, but he was seized with an irrational desire to have that understanding. She was more or less his best mate, the only one he had left. "Illyria, do you remember what you felt when Wesley died?"

She stood very still. "I wished to kill things," she said, low and fierce. "So I did."

"Did it help?"

A flicker in the blue eyes. "No."

"Then you do understand. When someone important to you dies, a friend, you feel..."

"A void," Illyria said. "The spark called the void grief. Do you feel this...grief, then?"

"Don't know what I feel, Blue."

After brief consideration, she held out the vodka to him. "Do the intoxicants help?"

"No," he said, but he took the offering anyway and swigged some down. Sinking back down on the couch, he welcomed the holy water sear of the liquor in his throat and stomach. He was startled when Illyria perched on the arm of the couch beside him, reached out to take the bottle from him.

"I will drink with you," she said solemnly. "Although I do not know your friend."

"No. She was before your time, love."

"I am Eldest. Nothing is before my time."

"Sorry. Between your times, then."

Appeased, she inclined her head, an indulgence. "Tell me about this...she."

He did want to talk about her, he realized. He also wanted to get so drunk that he would pass out for days and not dream or remember, but there was no reason he couldn't do the one while working on the other.

"She was an enemy," he said. "Then she was an ally. Then she was...more." Not quite friend, not quite lover, not quite desired object. None and all of those things.

"She was your mate," said Illyria, and his head came up sharply. "So it was among the Old Ones." Her lips curved in reminiscence. "We fought when we met, great battles to the death that shook the earth and stirred the sea into a froth of ichor. But when one could not overcome the other, they would join together in copulation on the field of battle."

"What a way with words you have. That's charming, that is." He grimaced around another swallow of vodka. "And not so far off. She was the Slayer. I was a vampire. We meant to kill each other. Were made to kill each other. But we never did. We just...danced."

"The Slayer." She rolled the word around on her tongue as if tasting it. "You loved her."

Did the god-king know love? Or was it the spark of Fred inside of her that made that leap? After a moment he said quietly, "Yeah. Yeah, I did." And then, "Oh, hell." He pushed himself to his feet. "Blue, what're the odds this city can make it through the week without me?"

She regarded him, eyes bright, hawk-watchful. "You are leaving."

"Got to pay my respects. 'S only right."

Illyria rose in one fluid, inhuman movement. "I will come with you," she said. "I wish to pay my respects as well."

Nonplussed, he stared at her. "You do? Why?"

"She was a great warrior. I am a great warrior," Illyria said placidly. "I would have liked to have met her. Tested my strength against her." Then she stretched out a slender hand to touch his face; too gently, with skin rather than shell, and he flinched away. "Because you loved her," Fred said softly, "and you shouldn't have to face this alone."

* * *

So it was Illyria's hand that pulled him back when he would have surged forward out of the heavy shadows of the cathedral, singed himself in the dusty beam of sunlight that filtered through the high stained glass windows to illuminate the figure of the dead Slayer.

"You are foolish," she hissed at him, and he hissed back, "It's not _her!_"

She did not loosen her grip on his shoulder. "I know this madness. You cannot accept the truth, so you deny it. It is another form of grief."

Spike glared at her. "I liked you better when you were less human," he growled, and twisted out of her grasp as her eyes went ice-pale with fury; but he knew she was the stronger, and had let him go. "You didn't know her. _That's not Buffy_."

The words rang out louder than he intended, echoing among the pillars of the cathedral, and Giles, who had begun to speak quietly, faltered, peering in Spike's direction. Xander's head jerked up, and Dawn gasped.

"Who's there?" Giles called out.

Time to make his entrance. Spike strode forward without looking back to see if Illyria followed him. The heads of the mourners swiveled in the pews, and a low murmur rose as people shifted, stared.

"What have you done with her, Watcher?" Spike demanded. "Didn't recover a body, did you? Or did you not want _them_--" with a nod towards the other Slayers, who drew together, eyes wide, whispering-- "to see what fate they're born to?"

"Spike...?" Dawn quavered, face pale.

"Hello, Niblet. So what about it, old man?" He stopped just at the edge of the light, stretching out a hand toward the body as if to touch her. If she was made of wax, she was quite lifelike. Smoke curled off his fingers into the sunlight, like an offering. "This charade must have cost a pretty penny. So where is she? Did she burn, like I did?"

"Is it the First?" Xander muttered, behind him.

"Spike, is that really you?" That was Dawn.

Giles almost sputtered, anger and disbelief warring in his expression. "You _idiot_," he managed. "What are you doing here?"

Flame licked his knuckles, and he pulled his hand back, shook it out. "Came to see the Slayer buried," he said. "Always swore I would, you know." He was facing off Giles now; the old man looked ready to stake him, and he could use a fight. "Imagine my disappointment when I found it wasn't even her."

"Spike." The witch, in tones of command. Little Red, all grown up. "_Shut up_."

He turned; her eyes met his--steady, a warning--and it hit him like a punch in the gut. _She knows._ Then, _They all know. What is going on here?_

_::We'll talk about it.::_ Willow's voice in his head was quiet but firm. _::After. __**Not**__ here. Not now.::_

He held her gaze for a moment before a new murmur announced Illyria's advance down the aisle.

"What the hell is _that_?" Xander demanded.

"I am the God-King of the Primordium," Illyria said with great complacency, and reached out to take Spike's arm. "The vampire is my pet." Her gaze swept over them. "We honor the Slayer."

The silence that greeted this pronouncement was broken by Dawn's "_Okay!_" Giles cleared his throat, and Spike said weakly, "Right, then."

Willow's lips twitched as she made room for them in her pew, but her voice was somber. "Thank you for coming. I know it would have meant a lot to her."

* * *

"Dawnie, why don't you go back to the flat with the others?"

"No." The Summers obstinacy in full flower. "Don't you get it? It's _Spike_. He's alive. Well, not dead. Undead. Whatever. I'm not going anywhere."

"Well, come wait back here with me, at least. I think he'd like a moment."

"Fine," huffily; and the two women's voices receded toward the back of the cathedral.

The pool of sunlight from the windows had shrunk to a narrow bar falling over the altar, leaving the coffin safely in shadow. Spike stood before it, staring down at the dead woman, this stranger with the eerily familiar, eerily _wrong_ features who had lived as his Slayer, and maybe died for her.

"Who was she?" he murmured, without looking up.

"Her real name was Sarah Kendrick," Giles said stiffly. "One of our best. She volunteered to act as Buffy's decoy in Italy."

Spike gave a short laugh. "Volunteered? That's rich. What did you offer her? A hefty severance package? The chance to grow old on the Riviera? A thousand promises you knew you'd never have to make good on?"

"Believe it or not, Spike, people do often choose to devote their life to the greater good because it is the right thing to do. Because they wish to be part of something bigger." Giles removed his glasses, studied them critically, set to polishing the lenses. "Sarah knew her place in the scheme of things, knew her contribution was needed to protect Buffy. Whom you have now placed in grave danger with your rash words." Glasses back in place, he frowned over them at Spike. "If news of the subterfuge reaches our enemies, you will have rendered Sarah's life here, and her death, utterly pointless."

"Pointless, eh?" Spike shook his head. "So she had no life of her own? No dreams? No family or friends?" Struck by a thought, he turned to look closely at Giles. "At least tell me she really liked that greasy Immortal bloke, and it wasn't just some ploy—" The Watcher's eyes shifted away. "Oh, come _on!_ And you call yourself the good guys?"

"I do not call myself any such thing," in Giles' chilliest tones. "My job is to do what's best for all the Slayers, and for Buffy. If you still purport to care for her, you should understand that. Even if you do not understand what is at stake."

"Does she know?"

"Of course she does. She wanted very much to be here. For obvious reasons, that was impossible."

"I don't suppose," Spike said, "that you'd tell me where she _is_."

"Absolutely not," Giles said sharply. "It's no business of yours. Buffy has moved on, Spike, and rightly so. It's time you did the same."

_And why do you think I came, you damned sanctimonious git?_ But he heard the dry whisper of Illyria's armor sliding over itself as she stirred behind him, and turning, spoke to her instead of to the Watcher: "Come on, Blue. I think we're done here."

Head cocked, she said, "Your Buffy is not dead, then."

"Seems not. Sorry to drag you halfway 'round the world for nothing."

"I do not regret it." She strode forward to his side, looking down at Sarah Kendrick. "She, too, was a warrior. One of the same brood, the same power. But you do not consider human warriors to be fungible."

Spike's laugh caught, raw, in his throat. "That's one way of putting it. No. They are not."

"Spike, who is this person?" demanded Giles, but Spike ignored him, as did Illyria.

"Then if this is not your Slayer," she said, "why do you still grieve?"

* * *

He would have left immediately, ducked out of the cathedral and into the bowels of the sleek, dark Wolfram & Hart car that had brought them there. He meant to leave. But there was Dawn, ambushing him in the vestibule and poking him painfully in the ribs.

"Just to make sure you're _you_," she said, unrepentant and with total disregard for the god-king hovering protectively at his side. Then, with a little gasp, she wrapped herself around him like a girl-shaped limpet. "Oh, Spike--!" Her narrow shoulders shook, and again he remembered the summer they had grieved together, when Buffy had been truly gone and not merely lost. She was taller now, beautiful, grown out of gawkiness into the full bloom of young womanhood; but he thought, with a sharp relief like pain, that she had not changed at all.

"Missed you too, Niblet," he said, and caught Willow's frown over Dawn's sleek head. "What, Red? Got something to say, do you?"

The witch shook her head. Dawn sniffled and pulled back a little without letting go of Spike's coat. "I knew her," she said. "Sarah, I mean. I lived with her before I started school. We used to go shopping together. She was—" she hesitated—"Well, she was nothing like Buffy, really, but she was fun to hang with. We were friends."

"I know, Bit," Spike said. "Tried to visit you both, as it happens. You were out."

She froze, staring at him. "_What_?"

Spike aimed a vicious grin at Andrew, who had been hanging around the doors in a hopeful way but now gave a guilty start and looked ready to sidle out. "Guess our Junior Slayerette here neglected to share that little detail."

"You _knew_?" Dawn shrieked, turning on Andrew. "You knew Spike was alive, and you didn't tell me?"

"I wasn't the only one!" Andrew protested, cringing. "Giles knew, too. And so did Willow."

"We only just found out before Los Angeles went to Hell," Willow said, glaring at Andrew. "And when it popped up again, nothing much was coming out of there in the way of news except for bad, so I didn't want to get your hopes up, sweetie."

"You were babying me, you mean," Dawn retorted. "Does Buffy--?" She stopped abruptly, her gaze darting to Spike.

Spike looked at Willow, who was examining the floor of the vestibule as if some fascinating and arcane spell had been encoded in the tiles. "Ah," he said. "That answers that pressing question, then."

"Buffy has enough to worry about," Willow snapped. "The subject never came up."

"Dealing in deceit again, witch? Deciding who gets to know what and when? Might want to look to that. 'S bad for your complexion."

Her eyes and cheeks blazed. "That's—I'm not! I didn't." Then, "Spike, did you ever think she might not _want_ to know?"

"I did think it," Spike said. "Funny thing, I was misled." He took a step forward; saw the witch's fingers by her side spooling light out of the air, tipped his head at her: point. Illyria stood tense and still at his elbow, coiled violence whose strike would even his odds. He shook his head slightly; he saw no advantage in taking on the big bad witch at present. "But that doesn't matter now. There's something else I'll wager she does want to know, though..."

Willow bit her lip; iridescent tendrils of power twined around her hand, quiescent for now, but they sparked as she said, "It's been a long day, and I'm feeling tetchy. Why don't you cut the cryptic, Spike."

"The red one is insolent," Illyria said suddenly. "Shall I silence her?"

Willow bristled. Her gaze had gone pupil-flat; foxfire ran up her arms and flared around her, a full-body shield. Spike said, "It's all right, love. We're leaving." He gave the witch a wide berth; after a moment, Illyria followed, but she didn't look pleased about it. Pausing before the doors, he turned to look back at them: Willow angry, Dawn uncertain, Andrew crushed. Giles had remained in the church, communing with his sacrificial Slayer.

"Thing is," Spike said into their silence, "I wasn't the only vampire with a soul in Los Angeles when it went to Hell." He saw comprehension and growing concern on their faces, tasted bitter dust on his tongue. "But I was the only one who came back."

Dawn's hand came up to cover her mouth, and he was sorry for that. Far less sorry for Willow's tiny "oh."

"That much, at least," he said, "I think she deserves to know." And he pushed his way out the doors into the street.

In the mercy of the cathedral's deep late-afternoon shadow, he muttered a curse, rummaging in his pockets for a smoke. His Zippo wouldn't catch, and he made a savage move to throw it away.

Illyria caught his upraised hand, plucked the lighter out of it. The flame sparked easily to life for her. He glanced down at the fingers that held his cigarette, steadied them with an effort as he brought it to his lips.

She lit it for him solemnly, handed the lighter back, fixing him with her unwavering, impenetrable gaze. No use trying to guess what she was thinking. Likely as not, she'd tell him, and he would find he hadn't wanted to know after all.

But she only said, simply, "Will you go to her?"

Startled, Spike frowned at her despite himself; if she were a woman, he would have expected to see jealousy. But she seemed merely curious, attentive, as if cataloguing his responses for future reference. He shrugged finally. "Got no reason to. You heard them. And we've got a city to attend to, don't we? The Lords of Beverly Hills, playing hooky while Hollywood burns. Likely missing out on a bloody good time." He tossed his cigarette into the gutter. "'Sides, she could be anywhere. No one's telling."

Illyria looked thoughtful. Their car glided up beside them. Spike reached for the door handle, then turned at the sound of running footsteps, a clatter of heels on pavement, and his name.

"That's _it_?" Dawn halted in front of him, breathless and pink with fury. "After everything? You're going to just _leave_?"

"Don't think I'm much wanted here, Bit."

"That's not true! At least, not for me. Willow and Giles..." She hesitated. "Buffy doesn't always see eye to eye with them these days, you know. She won't even _talk_ to Giles, after the Faith thing..." Then, seeming to remember her purpose, she abandoned this potentially interesting tack, folding her arms and glaring at him. "I can't believe you didn't _call_, Spike. You could have told me you were alive, at least!"

"Was a bit too insubstantial at first to hold a phone, and then I didn't have your number, did I? Besides, I was laboring under the impression that your sister didn't want anything to do with me, after my visit here."

"Aside from the fact that it wasn't actually her--so you decided to have nothing to do with _me_? 'Cause that's real mature."

"Well, there was the little matter of an apocalypse pending..." Belatedly, he saw the tears standing bright in her eyes. "Sorry, Niblet," he said. "You're right. I should have called. I'm sure the Wolfram & Hart research staff could have tracked you down without breaking a talon."

"I knew it," she exclaimed, then frowned. "Actually, I'm not sure how I feel about that. Wolfram & Hart is evil, right? Only you and Angel and everyone were fighting them from the inside..." She stopped. "Is it true, what you said about Angel? Is it...is it all of him that's gone, or just his soul again?"

"It's true," Spike said, wondering how much to tell her, and by extension, her sister. Would it hurt Buffy more or less to know that Angel had gotten his Shanshu after all, to know how much and how little it had meant in the end? "He kept his soul," he said.

"But...he could come back, couldn't he? He came back from Hell once before..."

"I don't think he's coming back this time, Bit."

"He died well, as a warrior should," said Illyria. "He slew a great number of his foes."

Spike glanced at her, surprised again. That wasn't how it had happened, exactly, and Illyria was more prone to manipulate time than truth. Nor was she given to imprecision. But he saw no trace of Fred in her just now.

"That's right," he said. "You can tell your sister that the bloody great git died like a Champion. Sacrificed himself for the good of the world, like he always wanted. Too bad she wasn't there to see it. He would have liked that."

"_Spike_," said Dawn, and the look she gave him silenced him. "Why don't you tell her yourself?"

"Better not." He turned away, towards the idling car. "You'll know better than me...what to say. How to soften the blow, like." How to comfort her as she cried over the vampire she had loved. "After you, Blue."

Illyria folded herself fluidly into the back of the limo, and Spike moved to follow her.

"You're running away," Dawn said. "When did you ever run away from things, Spike?"

He looked at her and for a moment again it was as it had been, the way her obstinate faith left him helpless and irritated and full-hearted to bursting. "I'm not running away, Niblet. Got things to take care of. People who depend on me. Running away would be leaving those poor bastards to fend for themselves in a city that the great and powerful Slayer Force ceded to the demons and the gangbangers well before it went to Hell." He slid onto the leather seat, reached to close the door. "I'm sorry, Bit. I've got to go."

"Spike, wait--" Dawn said, as the door shut. A second's hesitation later, he cursed under his breath and lowered the opaque window.

"I'm glad you came," she said, and leaned forward to lightly kiss his cheek before standing back to let the car pull away.

Spike slumped back against the cushioned seat, avoiding Illyria's curious gaze, fumbling blindly in the side compartment for the flask he'd stowed there in full knowledge of how much he'd need it on this ride. What he hadn't known was _why_ he would need that drink so much just now to calm the chaos of his thoughts.

Dawn had only whispered it, so softly he had almost missed it over the purr of the engine, just before her lips brushed his cheek. But the single word echoed in his brain like a thunderclap.

"_Scotland_."


	2. Part II

**Part II**

_Is it enough to have some love  
small enough to slip inside a book  
small enough to cover with your hand  
because everyone around you wants to look?_

_Is it enough to have some love  
small enough to slip inside the cracks?  
The pieces don't fit together so good  
with all the breaking and all the gluing back._

--"Astronaut (A Short History of Nearly Nothing)", Amanda Palmer

Buffy Summers was restless.

She couldn't help it. She had died, _again_, and she didn't even get to go to her own funeral.

_Isn't it ironic, don't you think?_

She'd hardly known the Slayer who'd taken her name to die under; for obvious reasons, they couldn't be seen together. But Sarah and Dawn had become friends during Dawn's summer in Rome; Sarah had looked out for "her" little sister. Buffy would have liked to pay her respects, even if just for that—let alone the rest of it. Dying for the mission, for instance. And that was the easy part....

But her wishes didn't matter. They usually didn't, lately, even though she was the one making all the decisions.

So here she was instead, padding through the dim halls of Slayer HQ in the witching hour like a displaced ghost. The chill of the stone floor crept up through her bare soles and nestled in her bones; she still hadn't gotten used to the climate here, the cold, the damp, the _grey_. Probably never would.

The castle was classic and all, but she certainly wouldn't have chosen it as her haunt. A year and a half, and Scotland wasn't home yet. Just another convenient location to stay and slay. Another stop on the way to...where?

_It's almost ten in the morning in California. What is this, some kind of extended jet lag of the soul?_

Of course, what had been home was a big hole in the ground these days, compliments of Yours Truly and a certain blond vampire who had laughed at death as it burned him to cinders and ash.

To dust. _Damn_. She'd promised herself a while back not to think about that, not to think about what she'd said, what _he'd_ said, how he'd looked—_don't go there_—but all that _not_-thinking just renewed the shock when, inevitably, she let her guard down, her traitor brain seized on a moment of fatigue or weakness, and she remembered.

He was gone. Dust and an empty place. Nothing much left to look at, and yet.

If she really were a ghost, she knew where she'd go to get her haunt on.

Yellow light cracked from under some of the doors she passed, accompanied by the muffled sound of girlish gossip and laughter. The occupants would regret their late night in early training tomorrow, she'd make sure of that. She'd probably regret hers, too. But at least she'd gotten used to not sleeping lately.

She raised a fist to knock on one of the offending doors, and then shook her head.

_Displaced ghost? Of a hall monitor, maybe. Chill out, Summers. Let them have their fun while they can._

_Yeah, fun. Remember what that was like?_

Now it was all in the hunt, the fight, the kill for her. All business, all the time Buffy. And wasn't the whole million-Slayer plan supposed to have changed all that?

Oh, good, the other reason she couldn't sleep. One of the many, anyway: the words of her latest adversary echoing in her mind. Twilight. What kind of name was that, anyway?

_Poncey_, her brain supplied. Not her word, and she wouldn't think about that. But it fit.

_Have your slayers helped change anything in this world?_

_Have they helped you?_

"Shut _up_," she said aloud.

"Sorry, ma'am?"

Buffy jumped, and looked up to discover that her feet had carried her to the castle's central control room. "Satsu! Not you. Um...that is, I didn't mean you. I didn't know you were on duty tonight." And there she had it, a full set. Things Keeping Buffy Awake. Collect them all.

The tiny, dark-haired Slayer had swiveled her chair around from the jewel-like array of surveillance feeds to peer quizzically at Buffy. Now she flashed a wry smile. "I wasn't. I couldn't sleep, so I traded shifts with Elena. Aren't you running an early training session tomorrow?"

"Today, you mean?" Buffy sighed, crossing the wide room to sit backwards on one of the ergonomic office chairs. At least they had spiffier furniture now, and it didn't get broken once a week. Fortifications were good for something. "Yeah, I am. Couldn't sleep." She returned Satsu's wryness with interest.

"What a coincidence, huh?"

Satsu spoke softly, and Buffy looked away, out at the video screens with their fuzzy night-vision images. Nothing going bump out there tonight. No wolves at the gate. _Too bad._ "I stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago."

She liked Satsu—was drawn to her, even. Found it disturbingly hot when Satsu called her "ma'am." And therein lay the complicated.

She glanced sideways at the other Slayer. There had been a fight. There always was. But then the Masked Man from Hell had shown up, a big, smug jerk who flew through tall buildings in a single _crack-swish_ and wasn't in the least fazed by the Scythe.

Satsu had been at her side, then.

Satsu had gotten hurt. The ones who loved her always did.

You could barely see the scars, wouldn't see them at all in another week or so. The Slayer heritage—Buffy's heritage—had healed her quickly and efficiently. But it wasn't the damage Twilight had done in that cemetery that Buffy was worried about.

It was the damage _she'd_ done. And those wounds were a little fresher and, she guessed, a whole lot deeper.

"Satsu, about the other night—"

Now it was Satsu who looked away. "We don't have to talk about it."

"No, I do. I didn't mean to—"

"Sleep with me? Because I seem to remember you being right there with me at the time."

"I didn't mean to make it worse," Buffy said quietly.

"Oh." Satsu's expression shifted. "You didn't make it _worse_. It's the same, only now I know...what it _could_ be."

"So, worse."

"Maybe. But I don't regret it." Satsu lifted her chin, met Buffy's eyes. "It sounds like you do."

"It was wrong of me. I should know better. Not wrong because of what we did," she added quickly, at Satsu's frown. "Wrong because of _why_ I did it. Satsu, this is—it's an old pattern of mine, and it's not pretty. It's pretty _ugly_. People get hurt. People who don't deserve it."

"We've had this conversation, ma'am," Satsu said evenly. "I took it under advisement. Maybe I should remind you that I was right there with you, too."

"I know." Buffy spun her chair a quarter-turn so that she could face the other Slayer. "Satsu, don't you see? It can't happen again because I shouldn't _use_ your love like that, even if you say it's okay. It's not fair to you." Satsu made an impatient gesture, and Buffy reached out impulsively, caught her hand. "You deserve to be with someone who can love you back. Someone who's not—"

"Broken?" Satsu shook her head. "Buffy, _everyone_'s broken. Somehow. It's love that holds us together."

Buffy dropped her hand. "Not me," she said. "Not anymore. Not like that." Not love. Duty. Will. Strength. Rage. _Fight_. That was what she was made of. No sugar and spice in here, just Slayer blood and guts and darkness and the knowledge that she really, really hated losing.

_Death is my gift._

_For she so loved the world..._

"Ah," Satsu said. "I think I do see."

Buffy squirmed a little under the other girl's thoughtful gaze. "See what?"

Before Satsu could answer, a sudden harsh, electronic tone tore through the room, yanking her attention back to the monitors. Buffy almost felt the tension between them snap, saw Satsu's little start.

"Saved by the bell," Buffy muttered. "Is that the emergency line?" The huge flat-screen monitor that dominated the near wall, dark just a moment ago, had begun to flash, indicating an incoming call. "Couldn't we reprogram it to something more soothing?"

"You'd have to ask Willow about that—" Satsu broke off, snatching up her headset and stabbing at the switchboard in front of her. "Slayer Headquarters, Scotland....Yes. Yes, she's right here." She turned to look at Buffy, her almond eyes dark and wide. "The call's from Rome. It's your sister. She wants to talk to you."

Buffy had already grabbed another headset. "Dawn! Dawnie, are you all right?"

"Buffy! Oh, thank goodness, I tried to call your cell but you weren't picking up—"

"Sorry—I left it upstairs in my room. What's going on? It must be past two over there! Why are you whispering like that?"

"I'm sorry, I know it's late—I wanted to call earlier, but Giles wouldn't—and then I was going to wait until morning, but Buffy, I don't think this can wait, and I couldn't sleep anyway!"

"There's a lot of that going around," Buffy said dryly. "Dawnie, slow down. What is this about Giles? Did something happen at the funeral?" Out of the corner of her eye she saw Satsu remove her headset and start to get up—unnecessary, as she'd already transferred the call, but she obviously wanted Buffy to know she had privacy if she needed it. Buffy waved her back into her seat. Without a clue as to what was going on with Dawn, she wanted the backup more.

She heard Dawn take a deep breath. "Okay," her sister said, somewhat more calmly but still in that urgent half-whisper. "Are you sitting down? I really think you should be sitting down for this."

"I'm sitting down," Buffy said, rolling her eyes at Satsu, who relaxed visibly. If Dawn had time for a dramatic set-up, no way this was a true emergency. "This better not be about getting some Jonas Brother's autograph, Dawn, or I will fly over there myself on the redeye just to kick your ass six ways from Tuesday for nearly giving me and Satsu simultaneous heart attacks."

"It's _not_," Dawn hissed. "How shallow do you think I _am_? This is way more important than some dumb celebrity. Especially the Jonas Brothers. Ugh." A pause, as if she were gathering herself. "Buffy, something did happen at the funeral."

"Dawnie, what—"

Dawn said, simply, "Spike."

And for a moment, Buffy couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Then rational thought returned; she dashed the tears from her eyes. _Stupid._

"Are you there?" Dawn demanded. "Did you hear me?"

"I'm here," Buffy said tonelessly. "But I'm not sure I heard you right. I thought you said—"

"Spike," Dawn said. "You heard me. Buffy, _Spike came to your funeral_."

If she had been standing, she might have fallen down, but instead she was on her feet and didn't know how she got there. "Dawn Summers," she ground out. "If you think this is funny—what in God's name is _wrong_ with you? Are you evil? I'll _kill_ you if you're evil."

"I'm not evil. I'm telling you the truth! Nobody else will. Buffy, Spike's alive again! Well, undead, anyway, and exactly like he always was. I thought you'd be happy!"

"That's impossible," Buffy whispered. "He's dead. He's dust. I saw him burn—I _felt_ him—" Her Slayer sense, her demon sense, had switched off like a light as the world fell to pieces around her, as she ran. All those ubervamps, gone in an instant, so that for one moment more she could only feel him. And then—nothing. _Like my heart going blind._

"And I saw him with my own eyes—touched him! I _promise_ you, Buffy. He was dead, but not anymore. Not for awhile. He's been living in Los Angeles..." Dawn's flood of words and assurances dried up abruptly. "Buffy? Are you okay?"

Satsu was beside her, her arm around Buffy's waist, holding her upright. "Ma'am—ma'am! I think you _should_ sit down. Here, let me help you—"

Buffy gripped Satsu's shoulder hard as the other Slayer guided her back into her chair. "I don't understand." She felt utterly exhausted, bone-tired, as if she'd been running for days—no, weeks, months, _years_, outrunning the end of Sunnydale, the end of the world—and it had suddenly caught up with her, dropping her in mid-stride. "It must be a mistake."

"It's no mistake," Dawn insisted. "Why don't you believe me?"

"Because it's unbelievable! He would have called. Or something." _He would have come to me._

"I don't know why he didn't," Dawn said. "I do know that he tried to find you. In Rome, because he thought Sarah was you, of course. But Andrew sent him away."

"Andrew," Buffy said blankly. _Andrew_ had seen Spike. She dragged a limp hand across her eyes. She could feel Satsu hovering, but she didn't have the energy to reassure her. Her entire existence was focused on comprehending this single impossible thing. She'd mourned him for a year and a half—worked so hard _not_ to mourn him, to move on—and all the while he'd been going about his merry unlife a scarce hundred miles from the old Hellmouth. But _Andrew_ had known.

"Andrew's terrified you're going to filet him and wear his ribcage as a hat. He says Spike made him swear not to tell."

"Swear not to..._why_?" This whole story just got more fantastic by the second. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe this was a spell, like the one Amy had trapped her in a few months back. She hoped someone would wake her up soon, even if it did take a corny Disney-style kiss of true love. At least she hadn't driven Satsu away just yet. But did getting released from a spell count as using the releaser? Even if you were asleep at the time? _Darn it. Not being a jerk is kind of hard._

Spike alive...now that would be a dream. Possibly even a good one. But this—this was a nightmare.

"I don't know why," Dawn said. "Maybe you should ask him."

"Who, Andrew?"

"Good luck with that," and Buffy could almost hear the eyeroll. "No, _Spike_. That's the great thing about not-dead people. You can ask them to explain themselves."

"Dawn," Buffy said in a tiny voice. "Dawn, is he there? Now? In Rome?"

"No—no, he said he had to go. Back to L.A."

"Oh."

"But Buffy..." Dawn hesitated. "I did tell him where to find _you_."

* * *

"You're shivering," Satsu said. "Here. Drink this."

Buffy stared down at the steaming, fragrant cup Satsu placed in her hands, then up at the other Slayer. "You don't have to take care of me, you know."

"I know." Satsu set the electric kettle on her mantle; Buffy caught the little quirk of her lips, but couldn't translate it. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I will be," Buffy said. "I think. It's just—I've had a shock."

"Obviously. Buffy, you went white to the gills in there. I've never seen you so shaken up, not even when...." In her pause, Buffy knew they were both thinking of that night in the graveyard after Twilight had made his exit, both of them covered in blood and dirt, holding onto each other. "I thought you were going to pass out on me."

"Sorry to scare you." Buffy held her teacup between two hands, letting it warm her. Breathed in. Thought about how the younger Slayers must see her: fearless. Invincible, even. Satsu would know better, now. If she didn't already after Twilight. "I'm glad you were there," she said, to the tea. "To, you know. Catch me."

"Just doing my job, ma'am," Satsu said, with a half-grin; but she hesitated almost imperceptibly before she pulled up an overstuffed chair for herself close beside the bed where Buffy sat. "So," she said softly. "Spike's back, huh?"

Buffy's head jerked up. Satsu leaned back into the depths of her chair, slender legs curled up under her, dark eyes gleaming with amusement and something deeper—jealousy, perhaps? "How did you know? I never said—"

"Educated guess. You really think the other Slayers don't talk about you? Tell stories? Not to mention Andrew. He's a great source. The hard part is getting him to _stop_ talking," she mused.

"Yeah, to everybody but me." Anger. Aha. An identifiable emotion emerging from the general roar. This was good.

"Please don't break that cup; it was a gift."

Buffy eased up on the fragile china. "Sorry. It's just—I wish—I can't believe I'm jealous of _Andrew_! And—oh, God. _Angel._ Angel must have known. Dawn said he—that Spike was in L.A.—" She froze, horrified.

Spike had come back for unknown reasons, resurrected by unknown powers, and hadn't seen fit to tell her about it. Andrew, Angel, and Giles had hidden it from her as long as possible, apparently never intended her to find out. She had thought it incomprehensible, inexcusable, but suddenly an all too reasonable explanation presented itself to her.

Spike's soul had died with him.

_What if that part of him didn't come back?_

What if Spike was evil again? Chipless and evil, roaming the streets of L.A.?

It would certainly explain why he hadn't called.

_No. It isn't possible._ And yet, when did the powers that be ever give anything for free, without a catch? Certainly never to her. Nothing good, anyway.

Satsu's quiet voice penetrated Buffy's rising sense of dread. "You're not drinking your tea. It might help."

She sipped mechanically, barely noticing its warmth radiating through her; but after a minute she felt calmer. Satsu was watching her with open concern. "It's so strange," she murmured. "I should be happy—ecstatic that he's not dead. Dawn thought I would be, wanted me to be so much. _I_ want me to be. But somehow, I'm not. I couldn't even tell you what I'm feeling. It's like—like I'm one of those cheesy snow globes that someone just picked up and turned upside down, and I'm waiting for all the little bits of me to come floating back to earth."

"And you're not sure what it's going to look like when they do?"

"Right now, I'm not sure they ever will." She took another sip of her tea and raised her eyebrows at Satsu. "Young lady, there is something in this tea that I'm positive did not come from a tea-tree."

"Brandy," said Satsu promptly. "I told you it would help."

"You're not supposed to keep alcohol in your room!"

Satsu dimpled. "Don't tell Xander?"

"Oh, I see, you think you get special privileges now. And don't think I didn't notice where you brought me." Satsu's room, her bed, newly imbued with sense-memories that even now curled, lazy-warm, in Buffy's core. Or maybe that was the brandy. She decided not to tell Xander. He'd be more interested in how she'd found out, anyway.

"Your room is up a lot of stairs, and I had the electric kettle. I promise I'm not trying to seduce you right now." Satsu's mouth quirked in that rueful near-smile again. "For one thing, it would be terrible timing. And for another—Buffy, I understand something now that I didn't before."

"At least one of us does..."

Satsu didn't answer, just stared down at her hands, which she held clasped tightly in her lap as if each restrained the other from some motion, from reaching out. Buffy said, finally, "Well? Come on, woman. You can't just toss that out there and not elaborate. Besides, you said the same thing earlier, in the control room."

"Did I?" Satsu frowned. "Oh! No, I was wrong then. Didn't have all the relevant information." She shook her head slightly, as if at herself. Then: "It's just—I understand now why you can't love me." Buffy's lips parted in surprise, but Satsu lifted her head to look her straight in the eye, and Buffy fell silent. She didn't know what to do with that look and what it meant. "It's because you already loved—already _love_—someone else."

"A dead man."

"Now only technically."

"Still getting used to that idea," Buffy muttered. It still felt like just that: an idea. Not real. Not a thing that she could touch, the way she could stretch out her hand and touch Satsu right now—loyal, fierce, beautiful Satsu, who loved her and whose heart she, Buffy, was very possibly shattering right now despite the girl's serene demeanor. _No. Bad Buffy. Bad idea._ "It's not quite that simple. It's not simple at all....I don't even know if I love him anymore. It was such a new thing when he—and now it's all mixed up in my head. I thought I was doing so well at moving on. I thought I _had_ moved on." She couldn't quite keep her voice from breaking. "And it certainly seems like _he_ has."

"You don't know that."

Buffy sighed. "I don't know _anything_ right now. There are too many other questions that need answering. Like who—or _what_—brought him back, and why. And why he wanted it to be such a big secret—and why a lot of people I mostly trust kept it that way for such a long time. And...whether it would even be a good idea for me to see him again."

Satsu said quietly, "You're scared."

"Petrified," Buffy admitted. "I mean, it was complicated _before_ he died. Now—" She made a small helpless gesture. "Little floaty bits. I'm scared, and angry, and—and _hurt_—" Then, smacking herself on the forehead, "—and I'm being a jerk again. Satsu, I'm sorry. To make you, of all people listen to me agonize over someone this way—"

"Stop," Satsu said, and the word carried what was, for her, a rare edge. "You keep _doing_ that. No, not the agonizing. You keep assuming that you're the only one who's making choices here. Give me some credit. I'm no doormat. I'm here because I want to be. More to the point, _you're_ here because I want you to be. And you know why."

"That doesn't make it right," Buffy said obstinately.

"You're not listening to me. Hearing all this about you and Spike—all this unfinished business, all the raw feeling I hear in your voice when you talk about him—it makes it _better_. It's easier for me, to know that it's not about something dumb like you not being gay. Or—" Buffy looked up sharply at the note in Satsu's voice— "not about _me_."

"You thought it was about _you_? Satsu—"

"Well, mostly I thought it was about the me being a girl thing," Satsu said with a smile, though her eyes were veiled. "My point is—it's better to _know_."

"But knowing can hurt. A lot."

"Yeah. But at least it hurts for a reason."

"You think I should see him."

Satsu rose abruptly, moving with her easy grace across the room to the fireplace, where she bent to coax its embers back into flame. After a moment, she said, "Buffy, I love you. That means I want you to be happy." She turned, and there was that opaque smile again. "Even if it's not with me."

A little silence stretched between them, but not an empty one. "You," Buffy said finally, "are amazing. And kind of wise. I hope you know that."

Satsu's eyes lit then, and Buffy was glad. "Thank you, ma'am. And I do. But it's nice to hear it."

The cadence of her words echoed in Buffy's mind, evoking a sharp sliver of memory. His last words. _No, you don't. But thanks for saying it..._

_God. __**Spike.**_ And she thought suddenly, _he still doesn't know._

_All those years he loved me, expecting nothing back....and I'm running scared because he might have gotten over me?_

She stood; her legs seemed disposed to carry her and the world less inclined to shift beneath her feet than it had. "I should go," she said. "Let you get some sleep so you can lead drills for me in the morning."

Satsu's smile seemed easier this time. "No rest for the wicked? I see how it is."

"Just my way of saying thanks." Buffy handed her the teacup, half-full with luke-warm tea and illicit brandy. When Satsu took it, she touched the other Slayer on the shoulder, all she would allow herself. "I really mean it, Satsu. Thank you."

"Pleasure's all mine," and Satsu shot her a glance up through her eyelashes that made Buffy laugh, and blush, and let go of her shoulder.

At the doorway, though, she hesitated.

"Satsu, can I ask you something?" The other girl raised an eyebrow, and Buffy took it as assent, plunging on. "You're a Slayer. How come you haven't said a single thing about me sleeping with vamps instead of killing them?"

Satsu laughed.

"I grew up queer on a U.S. Air Force base in Okinawa," she said. "Do you know that in Japan, most people still don't acknowledge that gay people exist? And the American military isn't much better, so draw your own conclusions about my family. I'd be the worst kind of hypocrite if I went around judging people for who they had sex with or who they love."

"Oh. I guess...that makes a lot of sense."

"You're cute when you're naïve, you know. Are you really leaving, or should I start seducing you now?"

"Good night, Satsu."

Satsu's laughter followed her out, and Buffy smiled as the door closed behind her. But heading upstairs to her own bed, it was Satsu's words that dogged her.

_Love means I want you to be happy. Even if it's not with me._

Did she want Spike to be happy without her?

Or was that the very thing that scared her? Scared her so much that she wasn't sure if she wanted to see him again. Scared her more than the thought that he might have lost his soul, come back "wrong" from wherever he had gone; more than the thought of him torn from heaven or hell.

Scared her so much that it might, just _might_ be worse than thinking he was dead.

As it turned out, Buffy didn't sleep much at all that night.

* * *

"Buffy, wait! Let me explain."

"Dawn explained enough," Buffy snarled, ducking deeper into the forest. Willow couldn't match her on foot, but her current midair pursuit was harder to evade. Low-hanging branches would slow her down, keep her back. And right now, Buffy couldn't look her best friend in the eye.

She was afraid of what she might do.

Willow had found her after Buffy finished her morning drills with the girls. She didn't look like she'd slept much more than Buffy had, her features screwed up in that familiar Willow-face of worry and apology that made her look about ten years old. Certainly not much like the scary-powered witch that they both knew could well match the Slayer in a fight. But Buffy had glanced once at Willow's hesitant approach across the green, dropped her weapons to the ground, and took off into the wood at a pace somewhere between a stride and a run.

Besides, she didn't want the junior Slayers witnessing this little conflict, if conflict it became, or coming to her aid. This was between her and Willow.

This was personal.

From somewhere above her and to her right in the forest canopy, she heard an exasperated noise. "That little—! She told me she called you. I wanted her to wait—to let me—"

Buffy halted, arms akimbo. "Let you _what_, Will? Keep on lying to me?"

"Buffy, _no_! I was going to tell you everything. Only, face to face, and in the right order. I bet Dawn didn't even tell you the whole story. She couldn't—she doesn't know all of it—"

"Because you didn't _tell_ it to her—"

"Because I didn't know all of it either!"

Buffy said flatly, "I don't believe you. Why should I?"

A rustle and a spill of leaves, and Willow floated gently to the ground a little ways away. Buffy turned her back so she couldn't see her friend's hurt expression. She stalked away, but slower now, so that Willow could follow at a safe distance. She had to hear this.

"Listen, Buffy. I made a mistake. I see that now. But Giles said—"

"_Giles_ said!" Buffy whirled. "What does he have to do with it? He doesn't run things around here anymore! That's me! I'm the boss of us, and that means I need to _know_ things." Willow appeared ready to protest some more, but Buffy stared her down. "Important things. Like Aurellian vampires who may or may not be evil rising miraculously from the dead, for instance. Especially when they happen to be people I—"

"People you love? You know, that's exactly why I _didn't_ tell you."

"That's right. You and Giles again." Buffy couldn't check the bitterness in her voice. She thought of her conversation with Satsu the night before, found a weapon in it. "I'd have thought that you'd be the last one to pass judgment on me for—for what Spike was to me. _Is_ to me. You of all people."

They were facing each other now across a small clearing. Willow said, with irritating calm, "This is not about me judging you. And if you'd actually listen to what I'm trying to say, instead of making with the jumpy conclusions—"

Buffy threw up her hands. "All right! I'm listening! What is it about, then?"

"I watched you mourn him," Willow said, after a moment.

"What does that have to do with—"

"Will you _listen_. When I found out about Spike, it was because he and Angel were messing with some bad, bad juju. Wolfram & Hart, Buffy. The original evil law firm. The lawyers that make all other lawyers look like fluffy bunnies."

"So? We knew that Angel was at Wolfram & Hart!"

"Sure we did. But that was before he made a deal with the Senior Partners."

"_What?_"

"Yeah, I know. So Giles was justifiably—I think _perturbed_ was the word he used. When Angel called him, he decided not to get the Slayers involved until he could be sure what side the vamps were on."

The sick fear Buffy had so far managed to push aside stirred again, coiling cold and heavy in the pit of her belly. "Right, because an Angelus and Spike dream team would somehow _not_ be Slayer jurisdiction."

"Well, before we could find out anything else, Los Angeles went AWOL and so did they." Willow took a step towards her, expression pleading. "Buffy, I couldn't say anything then. Don't you see? I couldn't give him back to you and then take him away like that. Couldn't put you through that a second time. There was nothing you could do—nothing _any_ of us could do—"

"But it came back! They came back. Didn't they?" Buffy felt ashamed, suddenly, for not paying closer attention. She'd heard about LA's dimensional shift. Why had she not thought about the implications? She'd been distracted, that was it. So much to worry about in her own little corner of the world.

She'd thought, _Angel can handle it._

And now Willow was saying, "Buffy. There's something I need to tell you. Something else."

"No," Buffy whispered.

"It's about Angel."

"_No._"

Buffy didn't know how Willow crossed the space between them so quickly, but she felt her friend's arms go around her, heard her saying in that same terribly gentle voice, "I didn't know—I promise you I didn't know. Not until Spike..."

"He's gone." If Willow couldn't say it, Buffy could. Two small words, flat and hard, like stones dropped into the wide, still lake of her heart. She stood, as if on the shore, and watched the ripples move slowly towards her.

"I'm sorry," Willow said, holding onto her. But the wave had reached her, and Buffy couldn't feel a thing.


End file.
